


Schoolyard Superhero

by little_q



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_q/pseuds/little_q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You get so caught up in your music as you make your way to the front doors that you almost don't notice when someone falls into step a bit behind you. The steps are hesitant, and when you look back towards the mystery perpetrator, he seems drawn in towards himself. Like he's hoping the world will forget him if he folds in on himself small enough. When he looks up at you, it becomes clear right away why. His eyes are startled and full of fear, like he'd been hoping you wouldn't notice him, and he's sporting a shiner and a still bleeding split lip. It's not hard to tell how one sided the fight must have been."</p><p>For the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahah, wow, so this is my first real fic, be gentle, guys.  
> The title so far is kind of up in the air. I can't think of anything better off the top of my head, but I would love to hear some suggestions, if anyone's got them.
> 
> Written for a prompt on the Homestuck kink meme, which can be found here! http://homesmut.livejournal.com/10240.html?thread=17035520#t17035520

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have a schedule you would like to keep. Your school has on for you, too, but you're not about to listen to any schedule that has you down for an hour of American Literature, but no room for cigarette breaks or music or any of that shit. You basically ace your classes, anyways, and somehow, nobody is willing to try anything when your schedule conflicts with theirs.

You have this school under your fucking thumb. Students strive to be closer to you, imitate you, teachers are equal parts annoyed at your attitude and intimidated by your impassive stare, and for the most part, entirely willing to bend to your wants. Damn, it feels good to be a Strider.

Either way, you have your own schedule to follow. Right now, it's just after 4th period. You just had lunch, sure, but with your social status, that can be the most taxing part of the day. You need time to unwind, and on the front steps with your MP3 player is the best way to do it.

You get so caught up in your music as you make your way to the front doors that you almost don't notice when someone falls into step a bit behind you. The steps are hesitant, and when you look back towards the mystery perpetrator, he seems drawn in towards himself. Like he's hoping the world will forget him if he folds in on himself small enough. When he looks up at you, if becomes clear right away why. His eyes are startled and full of fear, like he'd been hoping you wouldn't notice him, and he's sporting a shiner and a still bleeding split lip. It's not hard to tell how one sided the fight must have been.

He must have noticed you looking, because he averts his eyes and mumbles, "H-hey. I hope you don't mind, just- Please, if you let me walk next to you, they might not try to beat me up again." You don't reply. You do, however, slow down, allowing him the well-coveted space beside you. He clears his throat before speaking again, raising his voice in pitch and volume and letting the next sentence rush out in one breath.

"And if you're going to beat me up too can I please ask you to stay away from my face we can't afford to replace my glasses again and I need them to see okay please thank you don't hurt me."

You snort in the beginnings of laughter, and shake your head. You don't start fights, but people found out ages ago that you not only can finish any that get brought to you, but will with brutal speed. But this pathetic nerd isn't starting anything, and you are so far above what he's expecting.

What you are going to do, though, is take a small detour, and take him to the nurse's office. He introduces himself about halfway there, his name is John, John Egbert, and he sits a few desks over from you in Trigonometry, don't you remember? You're not even the slightest bit guilty that you don't. You'd introduce yourself, but of course, he already knows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are way shorter than I remember them being, why have they been taking me so long. I've got one more part finished, and another that should be going up sometime tomorrow.

You're not sure exactly when Egbert becomes a permanent part of your schedule, but there you have it. Twice a week, like clockwork, he falls into step next to you after 4th period with new bruises and different dirtstains on his clothes.

He's so timid, the first few weeks, and you don't blame him. Most of the people at this school could be cruel and vindictive, clawing their way up the social ladder by any means necessary. But you are not one of these people. You have never been one of these people, and god forbid you ever become one. It took Egbert a while to realize you didn't get to the top of the ladder, but had simply _been_ there, and had no intention of stooping to the petty bullshit your peers thrived on.

You're actually a little relieved when he starts to act less scared around you. When he starts jogging to catch up to you, starts giving you smiles and talking about whatever was on his mind at the time. You never respond, but he doesn't seem to care.

The first thing you discover about John Egbert is that he loves - really, _really_ loves - shitty movies. Now, you've been known to indulge in some really abysmal shit for irony's sake on occasion, but there is nothing ironic about the way he lights up when he's talking about the most recent piece of shit he's watched. He likes to bake, too, but he's quick to point out that it's not with mix, never with mix, and then he screws up his face and sticks out his tongue like even the thought leaves a gross taste in his mouth.

Sometimes he talks about computers, and programming, but it doesn't really sound like he knows what he's doing. Granted, outside of the programs you use, you don't really know much, either, so you learn to start tuning him out whenever he goes into the subject. If he notices, he doesn't care.

It's... kind of nice, actually. You don't talk to him, you don't try to find or stop the people responsible for his bi-weekly nurse's visits, and you never stick around past the door. But if he cares, he doesn't say anything, at least not about that. Once he's comfortable enough, he'll talk and talk about anything, but he doesn't try to bring you into it. He doesn't try to put you on the spot, isn't trying to befriend you as a means to an end.

The first time you laugh at one of his jokes, about three months into your odd arrangement, he lights up, grinning, and you suspect you've made his entire week.

It's such a little thing, but it's one of the most sincere displays of emotion you've ever seen, and it keeps you wanting to smile the rest of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part I've got right now!

It isn't a decision you remember making. You have a schedule to keep to, and there isn't anyone -- discounting your Bro, _maybe_ \-- who can make you change it. You know that, and anyone who's tried to make you go somewhere you don't want to knows, and as far as you're concerned, if the whole world doesn't know now, they will.

John Egbert must have missed that memo, however, because he's caught your arm, his hands warm through your sleeve and surprisingly firm. He's not a weak guy, John, and you know that. He doesn't use his locker to minimize the amount of time he has to spend after school, and his backpack alone weighs in at about 40 pounds. He lugs it around like it's nothing.

Knowing that, and having that strength latched firmly to your arm are two completely separate things. You're briefly wondering why he doesn't lay waste to those guys giving him hell, but then he's giving you this look, this helpless lost puppy shit, and you can't remember what your objection was. You were going to tell him that nobody makes Dave Strider go where he doesn't want to. You were going to pry those long, surprisingly strong fingers off your arm, brush off your shirt, and go on your way. But the look in his eyes makes your protests die in your throat, stills your movement before you can even really start to pull away.

His hands twitch, like he's going to let go. You can almost see the thoughts dart by behind those impossibly blue eyes. Was that the wrong move? Had he gone too far? Was he taking too much from your arrangement? Would you not actually be okay with this? His eyes grow wider, and you know what crossed his mind. What if this drives you away? What if you never help him again? You relax, not having realized you were tense, defensive, and let the corner of your lip quirk up into a small smile. _It's okay, dude,_ the barely visible movement says, _I'm not gonna run._ There's a split second where you worry -- legitimately worry -- that Egbert doesn't understand. You don't speak much, most of your meaning is in your movements, little twitches of muscle that can mean volumes and while your Bro sees it and knows what you mean, it's rare that one of your peers does. Egbert's a smart guy, you know that much, but skittish and scared and prone to overthinking. The second it takes for him to consider your expression stretches on longer than you're comfortable admitting before he blinks, once, twice, and breaks into a grin.

Thank god.

You don't leave this time. You stick around when he ducks inside the nurse's office, wait until he's done, and when he's about to leave for his next class -- a directed study, like someone's going to care if he misses it -- you catch his elbow with your hand, letting go as soon as you've got his attention, and tilt your head toward the lobby, another small, blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile on your face. _Skip with me._ He only hesitates for a moment, wringing his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot. It's more of a show than anything, though, you can read it in his face. He doesn't want to go any more than you want him to. You let him have his moment of theatrics, and then he's following you, this hesitant little grin on his face like he's not sure he's allowed to be happy.

You spend the next hour with him on the front steps, sharing your earbuds and otherwise sitting in companiable silence. He's apparently feeling pretty confident when the bell rings, because he asks if you have a pesterchum handle as he's packing up, and you're apparently feeling pretty generous, because before he can leave, you're fishing for a pen. When he turns to leave, grin on his face that's so bright it should be illegal and _turntechGodhead_ scrawled out on his wrist in red, you raise your hand in a wave.

"Later, Egbert. Pester me when you get home, alright?"

He stops, blinking, and you realize it's the first time you've really spoken to him. Then his face breaks into that grin again, and holy shit, if his grin had been bright before, now it was going to overpower the sun.

He's really got an incredible smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be part of a larger chapter, but I think this is a pretty good place to end.  
> Next chapter should be up in the next couple days.

John's much more outgoing online, and hey, you'll admit it freely, so are you. When he sends you a message that afternoon, just a few minutes after you've logged on, you're both a little surprised at how easily the conversation flows, how much the two of you have in common.

He loves music, classical topping his list, and he plays piano. It's not your preferred genre, but it's good when the situation calls for it, and you've een known to work it into your mixes on occasion. The two of you exchange recommendations, and you like everything he sends you. You're both into games, and by the end of the night, you've not only added him on Steam as well, but blasted through most of Portal 2's co-op. He laughs at every joke you crack, even when you know he doesn't really get it, or even when all you've done is get lost in one of your own metaphors. His jokes are unbearably lame, but even so, he gets the rare chuckle out of you.

The night goes by quickly, and by the time you're both heading off to bed, he's invited you to come hang out next Saturday. You didn't even need to think twice before agreeing.

\---

You're not sure when the protective feeling settles in over you. It just hits you one day as John trots up to you and your eye goes immediately to that day's scrapes and bruises, the fresh dirt stains on his clothes, the pained look he's so clearly trying to hide behind his smile. You notice each new mark and blemish and they twist at you, reach in to your guts and set the whole mess on fire with anger. You've never asked him before who's doing this to him, and suddenly, that's all you can think about. Who could possibly want to hurt him? You should be finding every last son of a bitch that's touched him and making them pay.

The thought stays with you for most of the week, though you never mention it to John. Somewhere along the line, your anger turns to guilt. Why aren't you helping him? What kind of shitty fucking friend are you?

Even John notices that something's wrong, and he, selfless and caring and giving and fucking _perfect_ as he is, he worries at you. He asks if something's wrong, so much, like if he only repeats the words enough you'll crack and tell him everything. Each time he repeats them, it twists your insides up all the more, until each question is salt in the wound, each worried look he hopes you don't notice is twisting the blade. What the fuck have you ever done for him? You don't deserve this much worry, god, just look at him. He's the one that should be fussed over, looked after and worried about and protected. There's too much good in him and not enough in you and you're letting it get beat out of him. Fuck, you might as well be there with those bastards, for all the good you are.

He must notice your scowl deepening, because he asks what's wrong again, and this time, the anger takes an unexpected and entirely unwelcome snap at John.

"Jesus Christ, Egbert. Fuck off already, alright?"

He pulls back like you've hurt him -- oh, who are you kidding, that felt like a slap to the face for the both of you -- and then he's fighting his face back to neutral, gathering his things. Your throat closes around your apologies, and your muscles freeze. In your mind, you're reaching for him, pulling him back to you and not letting him go, but your body isn't cooperating. All you can do is sit in place and panic while he turns and walks off. Your chest feels like part of it has forcibly ripped itself from your body in an attempt to follow him.

He's not there to meet you the next day.


End file.
